


Fortune Favors the Brave

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Chinese Food, Fortune Cookies, Love Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: Dean is getting love notes from someone at the local Chinese place.





	Fortune Favors the Brave

**Author's Note:**

> Based just a liiiittle bit off of that scene between Warren and Layla from Sky High (who totally should have ended up together fUCK THAT MOVIE I’M STILL BITTER)  
> 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)

Seriously, fuck Organic Chemistry.

Dean knew that he should have taken this course a year ago when all his friends were taking it, but he had listened to his little brother’s advice – why, WHY did he ever listen to Sam – and decided to take Literature of Science Fiction instead, for like, enjoyment. Which you’re not ever supposed to feel when you’re a fourth-year biology major up to his pretty green eyeballs in medical school applications.

Admittedly, he did enjoy himself quite a bit (who knew _Gilgamesh_ could be considered sci-fi?) and couldn’t bring himself to regret taking the course, even though he was now behind in his degree requirements.

Dean never claimed to be a fucking chemist, ok. The three-hour labs on his feet every week were absolutely killing him, and this stuff was _hard._ More often than not, Dean would hole himself up in his room and perch himself on his bed like some kind of scoliotic a vulture, hunched over his orgo book with tortured dedication. When it got too late and his brain was fried and his stomach was so empty that he feared that it would start digesting itself - because _of course there is no food in this godforsaken apartment -_ there was only one place he could go for sanctuary.

The Chinese restaurant three blocks down was an intimate, quiet space, bright enough with the red wall accents that Dean could keep his eyes open (even though they lit candles when it started to get dark and heaven above knows that candles always put Dean right to sleep), and the food was actually not half bad. Management offered discounts for KU students, so Dean could get an order of six steamed pork dumplings for under $5. He’s not ashamed to admit that sometimes he actually dreamt about their Egg Fu Yung.

(And maybe it wasn’t just the food that had managed to worm its way into Dean’s dreams. Maybe his frequent visits also had something to do with the night server, a blue-eyed stone wall of a guy named Castiel Novak.)

Jo made the mistake of accompanying Dean once in the middle of yet another chem-related breakdown and was forced to endure Dean’s pathetic crush for well over two hours, which largely consisted of unsubtle glances over the top of his lo mein into the kitchen window at the end of the room.

“Are you kidding me,” Jo had grumbled.

Dean had merely shoved more noodles into his mouth and ignored her, hoping that he could pass his red face off on the steam wafting from his food and not as the product of embarrassing infatuation.

Maybe it came from working in a Chinese place that was perpetually empty except for Dean and a few other regular insomniacs, but Castiel had this effortless calmness about him that soothed Dean’s late-night frustration better than anything. He was friendly in a quiet sort of way – he always had a small smile when Dean came in, and he seemed to just intuitively know when to come take Dean’s plates away and replace them with something else, or refill his water glass. He squinted a lot and his hair never laid flat. They never really spoke beyond the usual pleasantries, but, yeah, Dean liked him.

Dean’s first orgo exam was on a Thursday and Dean had never been more nervous for anything in his life, including when he came out to his mother. (Well, ok, maybe not more than that. But still. Freaking out.) He went into the Chinese place on Sunday night with his headphones around his neck and his textbooks under his arm, plunked down his stuff at the booth under the window – his usual table, with a view straight into the kitchen – and noisily dumped his backpack on the floor. With a mighty breath outward, he cracked open his abused spiral notebook and flipped back through his notes to the beginning of the semester. Maybe getting something in his stomach would help him clear his head a bit, help him focus. He wasn’t retaining much information as it was, and he kept getting distracted in his room. Being somewhere with people around might force him to be a little more alert.

He chewed angrily on the end of his highlighter, words blurring together on the page in front of him as he bounced his knee to the music streaming through his ears.

A soft touch on his shoulder gave him pause, and he yanked his headphones out of place to glance up. Some of the tension in his shoulders leaked out immediately.

“Oh. Hey, Cas,” he said, too soft, too obvious.

Castiel gave him one of his beautiful private smiles and nodded his head. “Hello, Dean. Your usual?”

He nodded, sighing. “Yeah, thanks man. Take your time – think I’m gonna be here a while.”

“Rough night?”

Dean nodded again, even more despondently this time. “Exam on Thursday,” he replied.

Castiel made a little humming noise of sympathy in the back of his throat and swiped Dean’s already empty water glass for a fresh one, twisting on his heel. “Well, good luck,” he said.

“Thanks,” Dean replied sincerely, adjusting his headphones back into place around his ears. He paused to rub at his eyes. _Come on, Winchester, you can do this. Toluene is ortho. Para directing. Trifluoromethylbenzene is meta directing._ He highlighted the line and frowned in concentration, mouthing the words to himself to commit them to memory.

Before he knew it Castiel was bringing out a steaming plate of noodles and placing it gently at the edge of Dean’s table by his elbow. Dean flashed a quick smile up at him in thanks. As much as it pained him, he couldn’t even bring himself to stare at Castiel’s back as the waiter walked away, too absorbed and jittery about his work.

Dean stayed tucked away in his booth for a few hours, picking at his food and getting some of the structural diagrams straight in his head before he decided that he should probably get out of Castiel’s hair. He reluctantly packed his things, threw some money down on the table, swiped up the complimentary fortune cookie, and waved over his shoulder on his way out.

“Later,” he said in a sigh, bone-tired.

“Come back soon!” the host, Chuck, shouted out behind him.

“You know I will,” Dean called back, in a weary laugh.

The little bell on the door tinkled sweetly as Dean left the restaurant, already snapping his fortune cookie in half and unfurling the little message inside.

He isn’t sure when it started, but this particular restaurant had a wonderful tradition of hand-making everything on the menu, and that included the fortune cookies. They weren’t overly sweet and were always cooked to perfection, golden and flaky, and the little fortunes were hand-written on pieces of pale blue paper. They never failed to perk Dean up, even though it was surely random chance that brought them to his table each night. They were different every time, and Dean even kept a space in one of his drawers dedicated to his growing collection of the sweetest ones.

Not that he’d ever tell anyone that.

 _Good fortune will soon come your way,_ this one declared.

Dean smiled and pocketed the tiny paper, with its chicken-scratch writing and good intentions, and popped the whole cookie into his mouth. He hiked his backpack higher up onto his shoulder and sighed, eyes drooping, as he made the trek back to his apartment.

 

“Do you have some scissors I could borrow?” Sam asked, stretched out across from him on Dean's bed. He nudged Dean's thigh with a socked foot when his brother didn't immediately respond.

Dean grinned as he looked up from his textbook, pencil freezing in mid-air above his notebook. “So you can finally cut that ridiculous hair? Absolutely, Samantha; top drawer in the desk.”

Sam huffed and unfolded himself from his perch. “Jerk,” he mumbled, approaching the desk. “I better not find any of your ‘personal items’ in here,” he told his brother, narrowing his eyes at the side of his face. He yanked open the drawer and started rooting around, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Nothing embarrassing in _that_ drawer, Sam, so you can take a breath.”

“What are these?” Sam blurted, holding up a few thin, _very_ familiar slips of paper.

Dean froze and could feel the flush spreading up his neck. “Um.”

“ _You deserve peace. People enjoy having you around_ ,” Sam read, slowly walking back to the bed before exclaiming with a scandalized expression, “ _When winter comes, you are the spring that is never far behind_?!” His stupid, judgmental eyebrows went higher and higher after each one. Dean stuttered through a non-response until Sam leveled him with a glare.

“Dean,” Sam declared, with the utmost seriousness and perhaps just a little bit of exasperation, “These are love notes.”

He waved the fistful of blue paper around by his ear to punctuate his statement.

Dean reached up to snatch what he could get his hands on and sneered at him. “They’re confidence boosters,” he argued, shoving them behind his back. He could feel another flush coming on and forcefully willed his face to cool.

Sam scoffed. “Dean, you know what my fortune cookies say? Generic stuff like, _It might rain today, pack an umbrella. The early bird catches the worm._ Not, _The color of your eyes is like the calm before a storm_ ,” he mocked.

Dean resolutely kept his head down towards his textbook and pretended to be engrossed in taking his notes. Inviting Sam over to study together had been a terrible idea.

“Well, who is it?”

Dean didn’t look up. “Hm?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

Sam persisted, and even if Dean couldn’t see it he could practically feel the force of the look being thrown his way. “The person that writes these for you. All the handwriting is the same. Do you know who it is?”

Dean turned his page with a sharp _thwick_ , harsh like his answering glare. “No, I don’t. I didn’t ask.”

“Why not?”

Now it was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. “It doesn't matter who wrote them, Sam. That’s not really the point of them.”

Sam’s frown only intensified. “Dean, somebody’s _in love_ with you. You don’t even care?”

“Oh, come on. You don't know that,” Dean grumbled.

“I’d definitely want to know who wrote them,” Sam said decidedly.

“Yeah, well, I’m not you.”

Thick tension clouded the air as Dean’s words settled around them, an admission and a lamentation spoken too harshly for this harmless circumstance. Dean tossed his pencil down on the sheets and leaned back against the headboard, running both his hands through his hair. The print in his textbook was too small; his eyes were starting to hurt and he'd surely have a migraine soon. He kept his eyes down and fought the urge to reach for his glasses, sitting on his nightstand and well within reach. Sam didn’t wear glasses. Sam got a full ride to school and a 174 on his LSATs. Dean went to school late and can’t fucking grasp Organic Chemistry.

The silence between them lasted uncomfortably long, with Sam collecting his thoughts and Dean trying to breathe calmly through his nose. Dean loves his brother, he does. He doesn’t mind not being Sam. He just wished that Sam would learn to stay out of his business, to not get involved with the scary stuff like emotional commitments that he didn’t have time for. Fortune cookie fortunes that he couldn’t possibly dare to hope were written with him specifically in mind. Life is hard enough without purposefully complicating uncomplicated things.

“You don’t get real happiness in life without taking a few chances,” Sam told him at last.

Dean snorted, but he was sure that Sam could see more clearly now that he knew what to look for: doubt, fear, discomfort. He’s always been something of an open book, and nobody knew him better than his brother.

“‘S that another one of your _love notes_?” Dean asked bitingly.

“No,” Sam replied, too gentle. “It’s still true.”

Dean gave him a dismissive wave. “I know. You’re right about everything, all hail Sam. Can we go back to studying?”

Sam paused, but decided to let it go. “And you call _me_ the nerd,” he scoffed.

He carefully put all the little pieces of paper back where he found them and shut the desk drawer softly.

“I still think you should find out who writes them.”

“Ruins the illusion,” Dean answered back, quick and firm.

“Whatever.”

 

Except, the thing was, Dean didn’t stop thinking about it. Sure, it had crossed his mind before, who could be writing out the little cookie fortunes night after night, but he never really thought – well, who was to say they were even for –

It was only a moment of doubt. Useless hope. By the time Sam had gone back to the dorms and Dean had a long sleep to clear his head, he had absolutely convinced himself that it was just a sweet touch of the place, that the notes meant nothing. Sam had been overreacting.

Still.

“Have you ever gotten a weird fortune from a fortune cookie?” Dean asked Jo over lunch one day.

Jo frowned. “I got one from Panda Express once that said, _Duck_.” She shrugged. “That was kind of weird.”

Dean shook his head. “What about from that other place? The place I took you that time. Any weird ones?”

"Oh, with the cute waiter?" Dean glared at her. “Uh, not really,” Jo replied with a little chuckle. “The usual stuff like, _The day is still young_ and, _You can’t un-ring a bell._ Why? Someone ruffling your feathers?” she asked, leering at him.

Dean frowned. “Nah, whatever. Just a question.”

Jo eyed him funny but leaned back in her chair, backing off and giving him space again. “I don’t put much stock in those things anyway. They don’t really mean anything.”

Dean hesitated, his fork only halfway to his mouth. “Yeah,” he agreed half-heartedly.

He knew, objectively, that she was right. The fortunes never really meant anything.

And yet. And yet.

 

He definitely felt a little weird going into the Chinese place again the next day. Truthfully, he almost didn’t go at all. This weird mix of nerves and excitement kept churning around in his brain, so he hadn’t been in the last week or so. Jo’s admission that the strangely tender fortunes hadn’t been coming to anyone else but him had kindled a fire in his belly, stoked his curiosity and his confusion and fragile hope a little hotter. But his exams were over and he didn’t really have a reason to stay up all night anymore, and that meant no more midnight brain food. No reason for a late-night visit to the Chinese place.

He decided on a whim after his way home from class one day that maybe he needed a little celebratory egg roll or something for all his hard work lately. Maybe while he was there, just by chance, he’d get a clue about the mysterious fortune cookie maker.

He sat down at his usual booth and pulled out his phone. A text message from Sam read, “You need a high five from the lucky cat :)” and Dean groaned softly. From the safety of his seat he glanced through the kitchen window at the end of the room, but unfortunately didn’t see Castiel’s familiar form among those bustling around. His slumped a little against the vinyl, disappointed.

A glass of water appeared at his wrist and Dean whipped his head around. Of course it had to be Castiel, carrying two other empty glasses in his hands and smiling softly at him just like always, the most pleasant of surprises.

It was exactly the kind of pick-me-up he didn’t know he needed.

“Hello, Dean. Dining alone?” he asked, moving to pick up the other set of silverware at the table.

Dean smiled – couldn’t help himself, not around Cas – and shook his head. “Yeah, too bad. You wanna change that?” he flirted, straining to keep his heart rate down.

Castiel’s lips twitched, as if he were fighting a smile. “I’m working, Dean,” he reprimanded.

Dean shrugged. “Some other time, then,” he compromised.

Castiel hummed noncommittally, but didn’t quite turn away when Dean expected him to. Usually he was all business, quick and efficient if super kind. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

Castiel shook his head, fidgeting with the glasses in his hands. “You haven’t been in for a while. Your exams went ok?”

Dean blinked, surprised that he remembered. Noticed. Cared. As friendly as they were, Dean and Castiel were still pretty much strangers.

“Yeah,” Dean said at last, “I hope so. I mean, I won’t find out for a couple more days, but…”

Cas dismissed the comment with a shake of his head. “Dean, I’m sure you did fine. You’re a very hard worker. It’s admirable, really.”

Dean smiled gratefully, huffing a little laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. “Thanks, Cas.”

“Try the chicken tonight?” Castiel suggested.

“Yeah, sounds good. Extra hot. And eggrolls,” Dean replied, sliding the menu over to him without having opened it in the first place. “Thanks, man.”

Castiel merely nodded. “Be right back.”

Then, the waiter did the most curious thing. He _winked_ at Dean before he turned on his heel and darted away, back to the kitchen to place Dean’s order.

Dean blinked after him, utterly unaware of the goofy smile spreading across his face.

While Castiel was gone and once Dean got ahold of himself, _Jesus Christ, dude_ , he sneakily peered around the restaurant trying to guess which one of the employees was his mystery fortune writer. Seemed like a good way to pass the time, and it wouldn’t hurt to know, would it? Just to satisfy his curiosity.

There was Becky, one of the bus girls, who in Dean’s humble opinion was far too clumsy to be handling dishware. Dean had seen her scribbling furiously in a notebook on her breaks many a time, and she used to eye him up not very discreetly as he’d come in to the restaurant. She had a phase where she’d blow kisses at him as she cleared nearby tables. Dean felt pretty comfortable counting her out since she was usually so brazen. He doubted she would put so much effort into being subtle and anonymous, and besides, he was pretty sure she was dating Chuck now.

No, Dean was probably looking for someone a little less intense, and a lot more available.

There was also Meg, the kitchen aide who regularly glares at Dean as he passes by the window on his way to the bathroom. It’s no wonder really; he takes up one table for hours, which he knows puts a damper in his waiter’s commission for the night. He always made sure to leave Castiel a generous tip whenever he came in, but Meg probably just thought he was rude. Not in that He’s-Just-A-Boy-She’s-Just-A-Girl opposites attract way, either – Meg genuinely did not _like_ him, much less wax poetic about his eyes.

And plus… ew.

What about Chuck? He certainly fit the nervous profile, and he did make a point to speak to Dean when he came in, no matter how often. But to be honest it always seemed more out of fear, a compulsive urge to do his job correctly, and he did tend to shrink whenever Dean came in with a frustrated glare on his face (too often). Chuck was dating Becky and probably a little afraid of Dean; it wasn’t him leaving him love notes either.

And then there was a whole kitchen staff that Dean didn’t even _know_ , but a window works both ways. What if someone had seen him at his booth, glancing curiously in? A shy dishwasher with a crush from afar, maybe? The whole thing had him stumped, to be honest. He frowned at the table, played with the saltshaker a little bit, and put his chin in his hand.

His deep thoughts were interrupted by Castiel’s smooth tenor. “Here you go, Dean,” he said, eyes twinkling as he set down his plate of extra hot orange chicken, an order of fresh eggrolls piled high on the side. “Can I get you anything else?”

Dean shook his head and absentmindedly swiped the fortune cookie off the tray his food came on, brow puckered. “Uuuum,” he murmured, thinking. He snapped the cookie in his hand and ducked his head to quickly glance at the scrap of paper, somewhat bitterly since he was absolutely no closer to figuring out who it was.

 _Your soul burns brighter than any I’ve ever_ _encountered_ , the cookie read.

Despite his earlier frustration, Dean smiled to himself and popped half the cookie in his mouth.

As he chewed, he realized with a start that he had never given Castiel an answer, and the waiter was still standing at his side, shifting his weight and glancing around the restaurant anxiously. Of course, he had other tables to get to, and Dean was holding him up.

“Oh sorry, man, I didn’t mean to keep you. I’m good for now,” he said, waving him off.

Castiel cleared his throat. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, definitely,” he said, feeling worse by the minute. “Want half a fortune cookie?” he asked, holding the other half out to him as a kind of apology.

Castiel’s lips curled up a tad and he did take the other half of the cookie, fingers brushing against Dean’s as he did. “You know, some people believe that the fortunes are negated if you don’t eat the whole cookie,” Castiel informed him, popping it into his mouth. “I hope it was nothing you minded letting go of,” he said, nodding down at the piece of paper.

Dean couldn’t help blushing. “Ah, well. It wasn’t really true anyway, so,” he told him awkwardly, curling the ends of the paper. He didn’t know how to say that he’d actually miss them terribly if they’d stopped coming.

All these beautiful things that someone takes the time to write out, whether they’re meant for him to read or someone else, Dean hasn’t really done anything to earn them. A burning bright soul, no, he doesn’t have that. It’s nice to pretend, to fantasize about dishwashers with little crushes on him, but Dean would never quite see himself the way this person seemed to.

Castiel’s mouth was parted and he was frowning at Dean like he’d just said something incredibly stupid, but the bell behind the kitchen counter dinged before Castiel could say whatever it was. He glanced back over his shoulder and then back to Dean, looking torn.

“I’ll… I’ll be right back,” Castiel promised, moving elegantly away from Dean’s table.

Since Dean didn’t come at his usual weird hours, the place was sort of packed. Dean picked at his chicken contentedly, periodically staring down at the fortune still laying on the table. He dunked the end of his first eggroll into the sweet sauce and fiddled with his phone, swiping his tongue along the seam of his lips to collect any stray sauce that may have squeezed free.

He didn’t really see Castiel again until the end of the night, when he dropped off Dean’s check.

“I’m sorry. We haven’t been this busy in a long time,” Castiel apologized, glancing back at the line accumulating in the doorway.

Dean chuckled. “No worries, Cas. I probably shouldn’t be hogging your table anyway. I’m gonna get going.”

Castiel sighed and nodded. “Alright. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you,” he recited robotically, already swerving away with the check and Dean’s credit card.

Dean smiled after him and watched him drop off the book with Becky at the front podium before dashing into the kitchen to pick up someone else’s order. He makes it all look so easy, even in the midst of the dinner rush. Dean would know, staring like this.

He reappeared moments later with Dean’s card and receipt. “If you’ll just sign here,” he said softly.

“Sure.”

“And this is your copy.” He handed Dean the customer receipt.

Dean signed the bottom of his check with Castiel’s pen and stood. Their shoulders brushed, and Dean felt like he just swallowed a whole bucket of hot miso soup at the contact.

“Thanks again,” he said softly, moving around him.

Castiel ducked his head and mumbled a goodnight, and then Dean was walking out the front door.

Once he stepped out into the chill night air, Dean let out a heavy breath and ran a hand through his hair. He started walking towards his apartment, and spying the trashcan on the corner began crumpling up the receipt in his hand. But as he held it out in front of himself, his eyes got stuck at the bottom.

Dean stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

Frantically, he began to unwrinkle the piece of paper and looked down where Castiel had handwritten his total. He pulled the fortune out of his pocket and held the two pieces of paper side by side.

According to the fortune cookie, his lucky numbers tonight were 6, 42, 27, and 13. He inspected the 7 on the fortune more closely, only to discover that it was the exact same kind of 7 on his receipt, the one that Castiel wrote out himself. The kind with a line drawn through the middle of it. A distinct slant to the right. The same blue pen.

He'd never even considered it could be, but the fortune cookie – _all_ of the fortune cookies – was in _Castiel’s_ handwriting. The reserved, zen waiter with a smile and a great ass that had taken such good care of Dean this whole semester.

Mechanically, Dean turned right back around and very calmly opened the door to the Chinese restaurant, standing up on his toes to look through the crowd. He barely even noticed Chuck’s faint protests that Dean wait to be seated, they were very busy, it was probably at least a half hour wait, Sir. But there in the crowd, with his apron still tied and his shirt sleeves rolled up, was Castiel, a strand of dark hair falling into his eyes. Dean shouldered right past Chuck, excusing himself around the other patrons and eyes locked on his waiter.

His beautiful, considerate waiter with a secret penchant for poetry.

Castiel didn’t see him coming, so when he turned and his eyes met Dean’s, his eyes widened. The dishes in his hands wobbled for a moment before he recovered.

“Did you forget something?” he asked. His brow creased, eyes deep blue and concerned.

Without second-guessing himself, Dean grabbed Castiel’s face in his hands and kissed him.

The plate that was in Castiel’s hand slipped out of his grip and shattered on the floor. His eyes slipped shut, his mouth was slack and open under Dean’s. Castiel’s hands, now free, wormed up under Dean’s arms and clutched at his back, and he let go of a breathy little sigh.

When Dean pulled away to give them both a little breathing room, he didn’t even notice the people at Castiel’s table staring at them with their awe and shock and amusement. All he could see was Castiel’s flushed cheeks, his messy dark hair, his glittering eyes fixed on Dean’s. He leaned their foreheads together and laughed a little in the space between them.

“Thanks for the fortune cookie, Cas,” he whispered.

Castiel was still clutching Dean’s shirt. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. If I knew you’d react like this, I would have told you a lot sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Castiel seemed to regain some of his control and let go of Dean, putting some distance between them. It had apparently occurred to him that they were standing in the middle of Castiel’s workplace, and he had a lot of eyes on him. He shifted his weight and glanced around nervously as he answered, “My people skills are… rusty. Even so, you’re so amazing, Dean, and I just thought you deserved to know it.”

Dean flushed, suddenly equally as uncomfortable as Castiel seemed to be. “How about we talk this over at dinner sometime,” Dean suggested.

Castiel grinned and his shoulders sagged with what Dean was going to assume was relief. “Yes. Yes, I would love that.”

 

Dean got to know Castiel a little better the following weekend, not over crab rangoons or vegetable dumplings, but over good old-fashioned cheeseburgers at a local bar. He learned that Castiel graduated a few years ago with a degree in philosophy, that he liked 90s rap music and ridiculously-patterned clothes, and that he took his job at the restaurant very, very seriously. He spent the whole night with his foot hooked around Dean’s ankle.

He may not have gotten a fortune cookie at the end of their date, but Dean felt very fortunate nonetheless.


End file.
